Good Will
by Arrida
Summary: Guards always have always done their duties and filled their minor roles perfectly. They stand by and protect those that need them, they patrol the streets on high alert. Others make deals in closed down pubs and help prisoners escape prison. Typical work in the life of a guard in Dunwall.


First fanfic I've posted on this account, so don't be kind. Be harsh. I want all the criticism I can get.

* * *

As he settled back into his post, he smiled.

"What're you looking at?" a patrolling guard snarled. "You wanna lose another tooth, ya' fairy?"

He looked away, only glancing back once the other guard had turned around the corner at the far end of the hallway. He sighed, the smile wiped off his face.

He'd grown used to the daily insults. They were a fact of life at this. Working at such a boring, stable job had to come with a catch. It was just his poor luck that the other guards here at the prison had chosen him to be their entertainment. Spontaneously deciding to patrol around one the empty prison yards whenever another guard came into sight was one of the few ways he could find escape from them.

Actually doing his job was another safe haven.

When he was doing his rounds, not a single guard would sidle up and start making snide comments. Feeding the prisoners was one of the most important jobs in the entire prison. If their prize prisoners dropped dead of starvation, there would be hell to pay from the aristocrats that wanted to watch an execution. No one wanted the job, though, except for him. Maybe it was because he had nothing left to lose. His parents had been taken by the plague, and his younger sister had fallen to a swarm of rats. He would be leaving nothing behind if he happened to be executed in place of a dead prisoner.

Funnily enough, it was the prisoners that were the only ones to treat him half decently. On his first day working here, he thought that at least one prisoner scheduled for execution would attempt to starve himself to get the guard passing out the food on the chopping block. They weren't friendly, but at least they didn't question his parentage or take the last of his money. Instead they stood by quietly, scowling at him when he brought their food around. He liked to think of them as friends, they were the closest he'd get to the real thing in this damned city, but he knew the truth.

If a prisoner broke out of his cell, he'd be just as likely as the next guard to get shanked on the prisoner's way out. Still, it was better than nothing. He'd take stony glares from prisoners over insults from sneering guards any day.

He'd once made himself believe that his days were numbered. What with the plague running loose, rats tearing people apart, and the aristocrats fighting over what was left of this city, he was amazed that he'd gotten this far. Ever since the death of the Empress and the kidnapping of Lady Emily – no, Empress Emily now – he had been convinced that he was never going to leave this city.

Things were beginning to look up, though.

He'd been saving up money, a coin here, a coin there, to escape from this damned city. Soon he'd have just enough to book a trip to another continent, somewhere he could find a pretty girl, settle down, have a kid or two. Once he left the city, he'd be home free.

The only problem was surviving that long.

It wasn't the street gangs he was worried about; he could handle a sword well enough to take out a few thugs every now and then. The guards were easy enough to avoid. They never came around to his collapsing home, situated right in between two other houses that had once held a few Weepers before he ended their suffering with a few well placed bullets. No, it was the plague he was worried about. He didn't have enough money to leave the city _and_ keep the sickness away. There was only so much money he could earn for buying Elixirs. The Bottle Street Gang's elixir was cheaper, but he heard a lot of things hiding away in his home. He wasn't going to risk catching the plague because of the watered down brew they came up with.

Making a deal with someone was much easier.

It'd been too simple to find the rebels.

He'd gone to The Hound Pits often enough before the plague came. Having a drink with his friends had been one of the highlights of his week. He'd flirt with the girls coming in, though he had no intention of taking one to bed – he'd already decided to save himself for when the right girl came along. Watching the wolfhounds fight had been a good way to pass the time. Now, though, The Hound Pits was just as lifeless as the corpses floating in the river.

He'd sat at a booth in the corner, talking with one of the rebels, trying to make a deal. The sounds of their voices seemed to echo through the building. There was nothing else to hear, and he knew for a fact that the servants he'd seen when he'd come in were listening in. After a few drinks, they managed to come up with a compromise.

They would keep his involvement a secret, as well as send a bottle of elixir to him once a week. Only once a week, they said, because they couldn't give anymore. He understood. If he still had a family to care for, he wouldn't have given up the elixir that could save them until his throat had been slit. It was only him that needed the elixir, though, and he could make one bottle a week work. Elixir wasn't free, though, especially not in this city. So he had his own end of the deal to maintain.

Hiding the note and key in the bread had been simple, almost ridiculously so. Of course, he wasn't helping to keep the prison secure anyway, giving a known criminal a way to escape his cell. There was no one around to see him do the deed, like anyone would actually care about what he was doing, anyway. The problem he could think of was actually getting the prisoner to eat something.

For as long as the man been there, he'd barely eaten. Maybe he was mourning for the Empress, paranoia over being poisoned, or he'd just taken a bad hit to the end, but at least three meals a week came back untouched. None of the other guards really cared, though. As long as the prisoner wasn't dead, he could do whatever he wanted in his cell.

As he finished bringing out all the food to the other prisoners, he made his way up to Cell Block B. He set his sword on a table, balancing the trays on one hand. He passed the trays out to the prisoners, opening the cells and setting down a tray before closing the door. When he finally came around to his target's cell, he paused, half in, half out of the cell.

The man sitting slumped on top of the mattress stared over at him silently, a scowl on his face. He stared back for a moment, before gesturing to the tray on the floor. "You should eat, Corvo. The meal comes from a friend."

He tried to offer what was hopefully a friendly smile, but got nothing in return. He took a quick step back out of the cell, letting the door slide closed in front of him. Corvo didn't move a muscle, just sitting there, staring. Maybe it was a bad idea to say something. Corvo had once been the Lord Protector. Corvo had to be able to pick up on his sudden chattiness. He'd never had any reason to speak with any of the prisoners before. It wasn't as if he'd actually meet any of these people outside the prison. Most ended up executed, or were imprisoned for life. With luck, though, this prisoner would be one of the few to escape with his head intact.

Walking away as quickly as he could, he swore he'd been able to hear the quiet scuff of Corvo's shoes on the cell floor, maybe even the sound of a piece of bread being torn apart. Since then, it'd been dead silence from Cell Block B.

The sound of bodies hitting the floor didn't really register in his head at first. He'd grown used to prisoners pacing, bashing their heads against the walls, rattling the bars of their cells. The other guards' persistent chatter was just another constant, until it wasn't.

Tilting his head, he found himself surrounded by silence.

All the squabbling and bickering of the other guards had just vanished. He pushed off the wall he'd been leaning on and looked down the hall. Nothing in sight, not even a silhouette stretching across the ground.

He fumbled for the pistol as his hip and slowly walked down the hall. The other guards must have put something in his drink. They certainly weren't smart enough to plan a prank like this to mess with his head. He'd have heard about it. They never seemed to notice when he was having his own break in the back of a shadowy room. Yes, that had to be it. The bastards had actually managed to spike his drink when he wasn't looking.

He sighed. Even if they have spiked his drink, he should go make sure just in case. Who knew, maybe a prisoner had slipped out when no one was looking to cause mischief. Now it was his job to make sure the other guards weren't dead or stumbling around like drunkards. Despite how utterly useless they usually were, it was keep the other guards around or try to keep an entire prison secure by himself.

He slipped through the rooms, walking up and down walkways trying to find another guard. The only sign of life that he could see were the prisoners in their cells and the empty racks of weapons in some of the hallways. He could have sworn there had at least been a few pistols and sword there a few hours ago.

He wished he hadn't left his sword for Corvo back at Cell Block B. It would've been nice to have something other than his pistol while he was searching for the other guards. When he found them, he'd have to say he left his sword at home. Saying that would only bring a new chorus of teases and insults, but he'd be content with the knowledge that at the end of the day, it would be _him_ surviving this damn plague while their corpses would be floating in the Flooded District.

No matter how much he was looking forward to their eventual deaths, he was not at all pleased by the sight of two dead guards in the middle of the prison yard. Lying in pools of blood, they both stared unseeingly at the walls around them. Each had their throat slit, a few streams of blood still leaking out of one dead guard's wound.

No wonder he hadn't heard anything.

Maybe it hadn't been such a good idea to help free Corvo. Who knew what was going on in that man's head. Corvo was probably insane. Anyone would be after all those interrogations. Now it was too late. Corvo was loose and out for blood. Every last guard here to keep this prison secure was going to die.

Muscles freezing up, he started to panic. What was he going to do? None of the other guards would believe. None of the other guards were probably even _alive_. Corvo could be keeping watch over the exits right now. There was no way he could escape unseen. He'd never be able to fight his game out. He was just a guard, nothing more, nothing less. He hadn't spend hours and hours training to fight and kill a man. He didn't even pick fights with the other guards, let alone start drunken brawls. No, he was not getting out of this alive. He was never going to get that elixir. He was never going to a job where he didn't work alongside idiots that bullied him, day in and day out. He'd never be able to settle down. He'd never meet a nice girl. He'd never have a son to read bedtime stories to. He'd never have a daughter to baby. He'd never –

A sharp crack rang out in the yard, the sound of something striking a man's skull. Then another body joined the ones already slumped to the ground.

* * *

A few hours later, one of those bodies woke up.

He blinked sleepily up at the light streaming down the cracked walls.

Water dripped from a leaky faucet in a steady beat.

A rat squeaked in his ear.

The sound of bickering rang out from somewhere nearby.

He didn't know what he should have expected, but he really hoped the afterlife wasn't a prison cell.

Especially one that smelled like death.

Maybe even a little bit of something burnt far away, but that was just a guess.

One thing he knew for certain, was that the arguing was getter louder.

"Hey! Let me outta here!" a voice cried, accompanied by the dull clang of a booted foot kicking metal.

"Aw, shut up already!" another called out in reply. "You heard 'em yellin'! They've got bigger fish to deal with than us."

"That don't mean they just had to leave us here!" the first voice said again. "Just 'cause that damn Corvo got out doesn't mean they don't got to feed us."

The two kept bickering back and forth, getting louder and louder until he groaned, rolling off the hard mattress onto the cell floor. He squeezed his eyes shut. His head was killing him, throbbing with every shout. By the Void, couldn't they stop arguing for _one minute_?

He froze.

Cell floor.

His eyes flashed open to stare at the gray concrete.

Just a second ago he could have sworn he'd been standing in the middle of the prison yard, staring at two dead bodies.

He took in a quick gasp of breath and struggled to his feet, leaning against a wall to keep steady. Unless he was just hallucinating while his body shut down, he was alive, actually alive.

He was standing in a prison cell, with no idea of how he got there.

He glanced around, trying to figure out just what was going on. The leaky faucet he'd heard was dripping away in a corner. A little white rat was nosing around in an empty tray for crumbs at the top of a few steps. The cell door was wide open.

He slowly made his way out of the cell, swearing when the rat darted under his feet. He rubbed the back of his head, glancing around him as he stepped out. This was definitely Cell Block B. The squabbling prisoners were definitely a pair he remembered from doing his daily rounds handing out food. The writing on the floor still proclaimed each cell as B1, B2, and so on.

"Hey! You!" one of the prisoners shouted, banging on the bars with his fist for good measure. "You're a guard, ain't ya? Get me outta here!"

"I thought I told you to shut up!" a second snarled. The man sighed, crossing his arms and leaning against the bars. The prisoner looked at the guard staring back at him in confusion. "What're you lookin' at?"

The guard shrugged. He didn't know much more than these prisoners probably did. Everything seemed to be a lot louder than it should have been, anyway. Talking just made the headache worse. He turned away from the prisoners of Cell Block B and walked out into the hall, the sound of one of them yelling, "You're just gonna leave us here! Get us out already!" growing more and more distant.

Dead bodies were everywhere.

Every single face was nameless to him. He'd never bothered to get to know any of them. All he knew were the faces of each and every guard he passed, meandering silently through the halls of the prison. He didn't see a single living guard on his way. What had one of the prisoner's said? Something about Corvo escaping? That was probably it. Anyone that had survived would be out hunting him down. The prisoners, on the other hand, were still trapped behind the bars of their cells. Some stood silently, watching as he passed them by, while others cursed and spat, threatening him to open the doors or else.

He just kept on walking. It was a welcome change to their usual stony silence. There wasn't much they could do trapped in their cells, anyway.

He'd ended up walking in a circle, coming back around to Cell Block B.

The prisoners there were fighting again, but he paid them no mind. He'd locked onto something a lot more interesting, anyway. Lying on the floor beside the door to Cell B5 was a note, held down by a rather familiar sword.

He crouched down, picking the sword up off the piece of paper. He grabbed the note in one hand, absently slipping the sword into the sheath at his hip with the other. In scratchy handwriting, nearly covered by a reddish-brown stain, it read:

_Thanks for the help._

A smile spread across his face. He laughed, the sound ringing clearly through the cell block as he rocked back on his heels. He paid no mind to strange looks the prisoners were giving him, not even glancing over when one of them whispered, "You think he got hit on the head or something?"

The hissed reply of, "Shut up!" went by unnoticed.

He was completely caught up in the absurdity of the situation.

There had been rumors that it wasn't Corvo who had killed the Empress, that he wasn't a murderer. Even if that was true, he had certainly proved them wrong. Corvo was a murderer alright, but one with a conscience. The idea of that, coming that close to death, was absolutely absurd to him. He laughed, and laughed, and laughed, not stopping until he bent his head down close to his knees, panting and gasping for breath.

The rest of the prison guards were dead, yet here he was, alive and well. Sure he might have a scrape or two and a bad headache, but he was a lot better off than all the sorry souls that had fallen victim to Corvo. He had a chance to start over now. No one would call him out for leaving his job now, especially after what had just happened here. There wasn't anyone around to watch him loot a few of the dead bodies and take all the coins he could find. This was his chance, his time to leave the city and find a new home.

He would be leaving a damned city, all on the good will of a mass murderer.


End file.
